Steel and Valor: An Epic Military Fantasy Novel (The Silent Champions Book 3)

by Andy Peloquin

  And the absence of his family. His wife, his sons. They should be here. Yet he saw no sign of them. Only the shattered door and gate. Cold emptiness where the warmth of home and loved ones should greet him.

  Where are they? His eyes scanned the darkness as he raced through the main entrance and into the feast hall.

  “Mylena!” he roared. “Rolyn, Adilon!”

  He burst into the grand dining room a heartbeat behind his call. Just in time to see eight men clad in patchwork chain-and-plate mail and dark grey clothing leap to their feet. Surprise and shock twisted the faces of the figures at his entrance, but Aravon had eyes only for the drawn swords in their hands. Dark crimson stained the edges of those naked steel blades.

  Horror threatened to freeze him in place, but he poured every shred of fear and fury into his muscles, driving himself to greater speeds. With a wordless shout of rage, Aravon charged the nearest. His spear punched through chain mail, tunic, flesh, and ribs in a vicious thrust, and blood sprayed as Aravon tore the steel head free. His spinning slash hacked down a second armed figure, and he brought the iron-shod butt of the spear whistling around to crash into a third’s chest. Steel plates collapsed and bone cracked beneath the blow. The man fell back, gasping and gurgling, his breastbone bent at a terrible angle under his dented mail.

  Blood spattered the side of his neck, and he spun to find Zaharis swinging his crimson-soaked mace at the fifth armed figure. A fourth lay at his feet, the front of his face, forehead, and helmet crushed by the Secret Keeper’s spiked weapon.

  Five dead in three seconds. The armed men cried out in panic, eyes flying wide, and two turned to flee. Aravon cut the first down with a savage slash across the back of his neck, reversed his grip, and hurled the spear at the second. The weapon flew through the darkness and punched into the fleeing man’s back. He cried out and fell hard, his helmeted face slamming into the marble tiles. Blood gushed from his shattered nose and the wound in his back, and he cried out for mercy.

  But Aravon had none to give. He saw only the bloodstained swords, heard the silence where he should hear the laughter of his sons, the silent shuffling of Mylena’s slippered feet. He crossed the distance to the prone man in two steps and, seizing the spear shaft, twisted and yanked the blade free. Crimson pooled beneath the man as he lay still.

  “Wait!” came the cry from behind him.

  Aravon turned to find the final man spinning toward him. Panic etched every line of the man’s face as he backpedaled, scrambling to escape Zaharis. The Secret Keeper stalked toward the armed figure, blood, brains, and bits of hair clinging to the spikes of his mace.

  But something about the man clicked in Aravon’s rage-numbed mind. He looked…familiar. Voramian, judging by his narrow features and dark hair. Where had he seen the man before?

  “Don’t—”

  The man’s cry was cut off by a blow of Zaharis’ left hand. The punch snapped into the man’s lower back with bone-jarring force and he sagged, his legs gone numb. But as Zaharis raised his mace to finish the man, Aravon realized why he recognized him.

  “Wait!” he shouted. “Leave him alive!”

  Zaharis pulled the blow, denting the man’s backplate rather than shattering his spine. Air exploded from Emard’s lungs and his head struck the ground, hard. A keening cry of agony issued from his lips as he tried in vain to scrabble away from Zaharis.

  Aravon crossed the distance to the man in two long steps, seized his arm, and spun Emard onto his back. Before the mercenary could protest, Aravon seized him by the throat in a grip of iron.

  “Where are they?” he roared in the man’s face. “What have you done with them?”

  “I don’t…know what—” Emard choked around Aravon’s fingers.

  Aravon slammed the man down. Emard’s helmeted head struck the marble-tiled floor, not hard enough to cause serious injury but enough to send a clear message. Aravon drove his right fist into the man’s face. Backed by the force of his rage and the weight of his spear, the blow crushed cartilage. Blood sprayed and tears sprang to Emard’s eyes.

  “Lie to me again and I’ll kill you right now!” Aravon hissed. “Unless you want your blood to join that of your comrades, you’ll tell me what the hell you’ve done to the inhabitants of this house.”

  “Tha’s wha’d I was tryi’g to!” Emard gulped the mouthful of blood, his broken nose mangling his words. “They’re not here!”

  “What do you mean, not here?” Aravon shook the man’s collar roughly. “This is the house of General Traighan and his family. A woman and her two sons. If they’re not here, where in the fiery hell are they?” He raised his fist to strike again, but Zaharis’ hand on his arm stopped him.

  The Secret Keeper hooked his mace onto his belt and signed with his free hand, “He can’t talk if you beat him senseless.”

  Aravon bit down hard on the rage flaring through him. The rage that told him to beat Emard to a bloody pulp for what he’d done. He needed information, and that meant keeping that blazing inferno of fury in check a few moments longer. “Tell me now, and maybe I’ll let you live long enough to rot in the Prince’s dungeons for treason.”

  “Treason?!” Emard’s eyebrows shot up. “Ain’t no one said nothing about treason. I’m just doing my job!”

  “For who?” Aravon roared in the man’s face. “Who sent you here?”

  “Lord Eidan!” Terror twisted the mercenary’s bloodstained features. “Hired Eventide four days ago. Said he needed us for a couple of high-priority jobs. He set a few of us here to keep watch on the place, because he got wind of a plot against the old General’s family. An old score to settle or some such. That there was a plan to loot the mansion, kidnap the wife and sons for hostages, and to torch the place. When things went tits-up and the Eirdkilrs showed their ugly mugs, I figured we got the easier of the two missions.”

  Horror slithered down Aravon’s spine. Lord Eidan. The spymaster had done this, had promised to keep Aravon’s family safe, all the while planning treachery. He’d sent the Eventide mercenaries here to clean up his mess in case Aravon survived the attack on Lord Virinus’ villa and somehow got back into the city.

  Yet none of that mattered now. Nothing mattered beyond the safety of his family. He had to find them!

  “The woman and her children?” Aravon’s grip on the man’s collar tightened. “Where are they?”

  “In the Palace!” Emard cried out.

  The words sent hope flooding through Aravon. His wife and sons were alive.

  “Lord Eidan said he wanted to make sure they were safe.” The words spilled from Emard’s lips in a rushed torrent. “The lady didn’t go easy, but Lord Eidan made it damned clear it had to happen. Said he couldn’t let a hero’s family wind up in harm’s way.”

  Dread replaced Aravon’s momentary hope. The Palace!

  Lord Eidan had no intention of protecting Mylena, Rolyn, and Adilon. He wanted them as hostages on the off-chance Aravon and the Grim Reavers escaped the trap he’d laid for them at Lastcliff. If both the Black Xiphos and the Eirdkilrs failed to kill them he wanted leverage to use against Aravon. Just the sort of fail-safe plan a duplicitous bastard like that would concoct.

  “But they’re safe, by the Watcher, I swear it!” Emard swallowed a mouthful of blood. “They’re close beside Lord Eidan and the Prince with the rest of Eventide, there to bolster the Ebonguard in the defense of the Palace.”

  And there it was: Lord Eidan had taken Aravon’s family hostage and fled to the one place on Icespire where he could not only be safe—after all, the Prince’s Ebonguard would die to a man before letting the Eirdkilrs step foot on Palace Isle—but where he could betray Prince Toran. The best place to drive a dagger into his back was by his side.

  The Deepshackle!

  Ice froze in Aravon's veins. The mechanisms to raise and lower the massive Serenii-built chains were found on Palace Isle. If Lord Eidan intended to betray the Princelands, dropping the Deepshackle would be the death blow. Without that
line of defense, the Eirdkilrs ships could sail straight into Icespire Bay, make landfall in the unguarded Port of Icespire and Palace Isle. The mass slaughter on the Mains would keep the Icewatch occupied long enough for the Eirdkilrs to overwhelm the Ebonguard. Lord Eidan could simply kill the Prince and blame it on the barbarians.

  Not if I’ve got anything to say about it! With a snarl of rage, he brought his fist back and punched Emard hard in the face, once, twice, three times. He stopped once the Eventide mercenary lay unconscious—Emard appeared innocent, and it seemed Eventide had been duped. But he wouldn’t take any chances word of the Grim Reavers’ presence in Icespire reached Lord Eidan.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Zaharis’ eyes were dark behind his mask. “Lord Eidan’s treachery plumbs new depths. What’s the play, Captain? Northbridge or Eastbridge? Your call.”

  Rage flooded Aravon as he rose to his feet. Every part of him ached to race across the Northbridge, to storm the Palace and hunt down Lord Eidan. It didn’t matter how many mercenaries stood between him and his family—nothing would keep him from his wife and sons.

  Yet, with a supreme effort of will, he forced himself to remain unmoving, to stand still and let the chill of logic push back the fire of fury. For too long, since Duke Dyrund’s death, he’d let emotion—the anger, grief, remorse, and sorrow—drive his actions. He’d thrown himself recklessly into battle time and again and nearly gotten himself and his Grim Reavers killed in the process.

  Now it was time to be rational. To swallow the emotions roiling like a storm-tossed ocean in his gut, and to be the tactician and strategist he’d trained to be during all his years as a Legionnaire.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced all thoughts of his family from his mind. Instead, he focused on the task at hand. A city under siege. An enemy waiting outside the Deepshackle. A traitor in the Palace. Too many problems to solve at once. He had to deal with the more immediate first. That meant saving the people of Icespire, as many as he could.

  If he abandoned the mission now and the Eirdkilrs crossed the Eastbridge, everyone in Icespire would die. The only way anyone survived this battle was to stay focused, to do what he’d come to Azure Island to do.

  Though it went against every instinct, he forced himself to answer, “Eastbridge.” He could summon no more strength; even speaking the single word tore a gaping hole in his heart. Once again, he’d put the safety of the Princelands over his desires. Over his family.

  But it was the right thing to do. No matter how much it hurt, he had to get to the Eastbridge and make certain the bridge remained open for the civilians to cross. If he didn’t, people died. The people of his city, the people he’d sworn to protect above all else. That oath he’d given to Duke Dyrund—and through him, to the Prince—trumped everything else.

  “Let’s go.” His voice came out hoarse around the lump in his throat. He swallowed, tried again. “The others will be waiting.”

  Zaharis nodded and, together, they turned and raced through the mansion. Through the halls that rang with memories of Aravon’s childhood, the years before his mother died and after his father had been retired from the Legion of Heroes. Through the rooms where he’d spent hours playing, learning from his father, listening to old war stories, hiding from General Traighan’s towering rages. Out the front door—the door he’d last left four years ago—and out of the gate, back onto Honor’s Lane.

  As his boots touched the cobblestone street, a strange sense of finality settled onto him. He wasn’t certain he could ever return. Not to this house, so thick with gloom and the grim remembrances of his life as the son of Traighan, General of the Legion, hero of Steel Gorge. Perhaps never to this city, the city where Secret Keepers wanted him dead. Leaving now felt like leaving behind a part of himself…a part he didn’t know if he’d ever get back.

  But that was the mission. The task he’d signed up for when he accepted his role as Captain Snarl of the Grim Reavers. The man who’d lived here—Captain Aravon of Garnet Battalion—had died on the Eastmarch with Sixth Company. Aravon had known that, had accepted that as the price he paid to safeguard the Princelands. And now, racing out of his family home to face danger, he knew he’d made the right choice.

  Everything he’d done had led to this moment. Every decision he’d made since waking up in that bed in Camp Marshal, since he agreed to serve as the commander of Duke Dyrund’s special company. It had all brought him here. To Icespire, the city of his birth, in time to save the Princelands from a threat no one could have predicted. Not him alone, but the six Grim Reavers that had joined him in this mission.

  Not the life he might have chosen a year ago, but an outcome he would never regret. If the Princelands, Prince Toran, and his family lived through this because of him—because of some tiny action or decision he made—all the sacrifice, loss, and hardship would have been worth it.

  That thought lifted the burden from his shoulders, lent wings to his feet. He and Zaharis raced through Sanctuary Court and eastward along Honor’s Lane. Aravon felt no pain, no fatigue, only the fire of grim determination blazing in his belly as he sprinted up the main avenue toward Eastbridge.

  All around him, the noblemen and women of Azure Island had emerged from their homes. Servants, household guards, merchants, and guests mingled with the wealthiest of the Princelands. All eyes were fixed on the burning Outwards to the south and west, on the Soldier’s Gate to the east. On the thick pillars of dark grey smoke and the furious red-and-gold fire lighting up the night.

  A few of the Azure Islanders had the presence of mind and sense of decency enough to help the Mains-folk now flooding their island refuge. Some offered blankets, food, or even opened their doors. Far too many, however, stood silently by and watched their fellow citizens of Icespire huddle on the cold, hard stone streets.

  Again, Aravon ached to help. He wanted to shout at the nobles for their selfishness—they had so much, and now they had people in real need with which to share it. But he couldn’t spare the time or the breath. He had to get to the Eastbridge first. One problem at a time.

  His mind raced in time with his flashing feet, and he risked a glance northward. The Eirdkilr fleet still sat beyond the Deepshackle, lurking like wolves poised to pounce on weakened prey. Yet the fact that the sea chain hadn’t yet come down filled Aravon with a glimmer of hope. Lord Eidan’s plan hadn’t fully succeeded; his treachery was not yet complete. As long as the Deepshackle remained up, there were still loyal guards defending the Serenii-built mechanisms. They had a chance of survival.

  But for how much longer? The question raced through Aravon’s mind. How long until he manages to lower the Deepshackle? Aravon had no desire to find out. He had to hurry to secure the Eastbridge, then he could race toward the Northbridge and the Palace, there to secure the Deepshackle’s mechanisms against Lord Eidan’s treachery.

  The moment after he reached the Eastbridge, five familiar figures raced up the street leading from the Southbridge.

  “Captain!” Colborn shouted as he sprinted toward them, the rest hot on his heels. “The Icewatchers at the Southbridge stands ready to drop it before the Eirdkilrs cross.”

  “Good.” Aravon nodded. “And the people of the Mains?”

  “Already flooding across,” Colborn replied. “Gengibar Twist’s men are holding up their end of the bargain, it seems.”

  “Then we’ve got one more bridge to secure to keep ours.” Turning, he raced toward the Eastbridge. The Icewatchers on the island-side of the bridge turned toward the Grim Reavers. These, at least, had the presence of mind to raise their weapons—even if the crossbows pointed at the wrong enemy, the fact that they’d thought to draw meant they weren’t paralyzed by surprise and uncertainty.

  Aravon raised his voice. “Who is in—”

  Before he could finish the question, fires sprang to life on the land-side. Not in the empty Legion encampment outside the wall, Aravon realized, but in Portside. The howling of hundreds of Eirdkilrs and the crackling of burning homes grew lo
uder with every heartbeat.

  The Eirdkilrs had overwhelmed the Icewatchers holding the Soldier’s Gate. They were in the city.

  Aravon whirled toward the Icewatchers. “Get ready to drop the bridge at my command!”

  He didn’t wait for a response—he had no time—but raced across the Eastbridge, his six Grim Reavers pounding along behind him. His heart hammered a thundering beat as he sprinted the thirty yards to where the Icewatch held the barred lattice-steelwork gate that held the people of Portside, the Glimmer, and Eastway from reaching safety.

  “Open those Keeper-damned gates!” he roared. “By order of Prince Toran, get those people onto Azure Island, now!”

  One Icewatcher, likely the officer in charge, turned toward him, jaw set and stubborn.

  Without hesitation, Aravon threw himself against the winch that began lowering the gates. Belthar joined him a moment later, and the cries of relief and gratitude from the crowd beyond soon drowned out the rumbling of the gate. Those cries turned to panic, terror, and horror a moment later. People streamed away to the south, fleeing whatever had incited such fear.

  Aravon’s head snapped around to peer through the gate. Towering figures with shaggy hair and beards, filthy icebear pelts, and enormous weapons appeared through the haze of smoke engulfing Portside and the Legion’s Path. Dozens of them rampaged through the streets north and south of the broad avenue, breaking down doors, hauling screaming men and women from their homes, slaughtering with bloodthirsty abandon.

  The main bulk of the Eirdkilr force, however, clustered around the ragged line of armed men retreating backwards along the Legion’s Path. Most wore the conical helms and blue cloaks of Icewatchers, but a few among them wore Legion armor. Battered, dented, long ago past use in proper Legion service, yet far better preserved than the men who wore it. Men who fought with only one arm, limped on metal-braced legs, or men long ago weakened by age. The real soldiers of Icespire, not those who had received commendations or rewards from the Prince, but those who had served with honor before returning to the simple life of a civilian. Once soldiers and Legionnaires, now merchants, sailors, servants, carters, tailors, tavernkeepers, and tradesmen. Some who hadn’t seen battle in decades or lacked the strength to hold a shield. Yet there they stood, and fought, and died to protect their city.